The Advantage of Being a Bench Warmer
by Veterization
Summary: Stiles/Derek oneshot. Stiles watches lacrosse practice from the bench. Derek starts watching Stiles. Or, how lacrosse manages to bring these two idiots together.


_Disclaimer:_ I do not own Teen Wolf.

* * *

Stiles loves lacrosse.

He always sits on the bench, except he never truly considers himself to be a bench warmer. He's a supporter, a fellow athlete, a roarer and a cheerer and part of the rambunctious crowd that urges on his team. He holds his lacrosse stick over his head like a symbolic trophy of victory whenever someone scores a goal for his team, bounces on the bench, and feels all the same _please win this game or bust_nerves that his teammates do while they're weaving in between the opposing team hoping to gain the upper hand and holding up their defense.

He likes to believe that he's not too bad at lacrosse—even without Scott's supernatural speed or reflexes—and that if he was ever out there, he might even score a few points if he ever got over the compulsory panic attack that would rattle his bones upon first stepping out onto the field. His aim isn't too horrible and his Adderall helps with making him the most concentrated player on the team as long as he doesn't swallow too many, in which case he ends up the most hyperactive player on the team.

But even if he never plays and he spends the rest of his high school career chewing on his lacrosse gear from the sidelines or unnecessarily fixing any holes or scuffs in his equipment on the foot of his bed even if it will never touch the dirt or catch a ball, he's happy paying rapt attention from the bench.

The others, they all have their moments and their athletic talents, and Boyd can scare off all the members of the other team and Scott can leap and roll over all of them, but Stiles is the one who gets the personal satisfaction of having a pleasantly sore voice the next morning that persists into the middle of the week letting him know that he cheered and shouted the loudest in the audience for all of his teammates.

* * *

Derek has watched enough lacrosse to last him a lifetime.

He's not big on sports, more so survival than anything else, but he understands the appeal of pushing together a group of sexually frustrated, aggressive, adolescent teenagers to put on sweaty jerseys that all bear the same unifying color and telling them to defend their turf against other equally restless teenagers. He supposes it creates a bond, no matter how temporary or forced that bond might be for some of the boys, when a group of budding men depend on each other to not let those goals in, or not let the defense stop anybody from scoring, or not to let a single opponent tackle a key asset in the game.

He watches it from the trees and from a fair distance behind the bleachers, where he can witness it all from between people's shoes and as an innocent bystander. He's always wondered if one of these days, a parent or a teacher will report sighting a solemn man in leather always spying on Beacon Hills lacrosse practice, but it never happens. The boys, the coach, even the benched players, they focus entirely on _lacrosse_, on where the ball's going and where their teammates are dashing, never on the distractions lingering nearby.

He starts watching practice when Scott first turns, the kid spiraling so helplessly off his axis that he knew perfectly well that being slamming into and poked with sticks by boys—and Jackson, who already aggravates Scott just by being in his vicinity—would only provoke his horribly undisciplined power. He watches from by the bleachers as Scott falls to his knees and his friend hauls him to the locker room and tries his hardest not to threaten the frazzled lacrosse coach right now to cut Scott from the team or else, motivational fangs optional in selling the suggestion, since surely the kid's got more important things on his list of priorities than just high school athletics.

As it turns out, he doesn't, so Derek decides that for the safety of the entire Beacon Hills lacrosse team, he'll keep attending practice, and games too if necessary.

After the fifth practice he watches from afar and the second game he watches the team triumphantly win, he starts liking lacrosse.

* * *

_This_, Stiles thinks, baffled, while he shakes his head a few times for emphasis, _is not how you do stealthy_.

It's early morning lacrosse practice, smack dab in the coldest part of autumn, where you wake up, stick your hand out the window to gauge the weather conditions, and promptly recoil it back into the warmth and decide you'll be digging out the jackets you threw carelessly into the back of your closet during summertime, and he's here with his feet chattering up and down on the dirt to keep his muscles moving while others are enjoying the joy of radiators and heating units indoors, and over a few feet from where the lacrosse goals are squatting into the mud stands Derek Hale, plain as day, watching practice with grim eyes.

He sort of wants to get off the bench even though he's finally succeeding in warming the patch of icy metal on the seat beneath him that he was first unceremoniously assigned to sit sentinel over when practice began to give the freshmen a chance at practice—which Stiles knows perfectly well is Coach Finstock's poorly veiled attempts to cushion the blow that he doesn't think training Stiles is necessary when he'll never actually play on the field—and stalk over to Derek and perhaps give him a few pointers on disguise, because every time he looks over his shoulder he catches a glimpse of a dark figure looming by the trees like a grave omen of death. He feels morbidly like he's landed himself directly into a scene from _The Ring_, a feeling which doesn't bode well with Stiles before noon. Noon is when all adventure is free to charge at him.

Stiles wonders if maybe Derek Hale wouldn't look so much like he just watched a kennel of puppies die in a massacre if someone paid attention to him, maybe threw him a Halloween mask or waved at him from the stands when they see him watching practice with his squared shoulders and set jaw and nobody to commentate with on how awful Greenberg is at lacrosse.

* * *

The Beacon Hills lacrosse team consists mostly of buff students with a substantial amount more body mass than some of their classmates, speedy runners with sharp reflexes, and egotistic assholes who play because they like the sound of girls shrieking for them in the bleachers.

Derek can categorize all of the players just by listening to them talk or watching them lumber down the field, all of them neatly slotting into one high school athlete stereotype or another, but then, oddly enough, there's one anomaly in the group.

There's _Stiles_. He's not particularly fast, gangly limbs and asthma preventing him from being able to dart down the field like Scott might be able to thanks to his lycanthropic abilities, and he's not particularly big and useful for colliding into opposing players to send them sprawling onto the grass. He also seems to play lacrosse for a reason unlike most of the others—he actually _likes_it.

Derek supposes that's why Stiles is okay sitting out on the bench during every game or being stuck doing routine drills during practice. He's never seen a kid so clumsy with his own hands and so butterfingered when trying to hold his stick just the right way to catch the ball. He might be better off avoiding all sports and using his extra time on honing his education to save anyone the concern that the kid might be breaking limbs any time soon at his own expense.

Still, he tries. Derek sees a startling amount of perseverance in Stiles, the type of patience that isn't found drumming through the average high school boy's body, and he can respect that even if he can't understand Stiles' refusal to accept that his devotion might never be rewarded.

He watches from afar as Stiles readjusts his helmet, twirls his stick, and goes charging for the goal during practice, only to be promptly intercepted and tackled by Jackson. He hits the ground like he's asleep, and a moment later Coach Finstock is muffling his own entertained snickers and sending Stiles hobbling back to the benches to sit the rest of practice out.

Derek doesn't care, he really doesn't—as a matter of fact, it might be better if the kid is discouraged from playing lacrosse ever again—but after practice is over he heads for the parking lot and slips a note reading _Whittemore's weakness is his ankles. Next time he tries to tackle you, stick out your foot._under Stiles' windshield wiper.

* * *

The only thing Stiles really doesn't care for with lacrosse is just how much the boys' locker room stinks.

He supposes that it has to stink, that it's a sign of victory and manliness and virility and conquest, and that he's never a bouncing meadow of daisies when he runs from the field either, but at one point the stench of dirt, sweat, blood, and then a thick layer of Axe intermingled with all of it in a poor attempt to veil the more putrid odors in the room makes Stiles sneeze repeatedly into his jersey.

Still, he doesn't think he would trade that post-game triumph for any other feeling in the world, when he and a dozen other roaring boys sprint for the locker room, bodies colliding and voices hoarse in an attempt to rehash all the best moments in the game in slow motion and painstaking detail. The vigorous scrub down in the showers, followed by the fruitless search for clean clothes, and the echoing din of slamming lockers and blissfully exhausted _good job_s and _you too_s.

He wonders after practice one day when he watches Derek Hale rustle in the nearby bushes and turn back around to go home if he's ever felt that type of irreplaceable jubilance, the type of post-game bliss that actually makes the team feel like a family. Stiles wonders if that's what having a pack is like for him—like having the strongest lacrosse team in the world that just keeps winning, keeps growing, keeps getting better—and if that's why he watches them play sometimes. They're teenage boys, not exactly professionals that would be exciting to watch dart along the field with precise footwork, and Scott isn't wolfing out every time someone tackles him on the field anymore, and yet there he is, like a fixture in the trees, always there whenever there are boys on the field. Stiles wonders if he's cheering them all on or if he's waiting for disaster to strike or if maybe he's jealous that he doesn't get to enjoy the simple pleasures of being with a group of boisterous boys at the crack of dawn to throw a ball around.

He makes a mental note to one day ask if Derek likes lacrosse, or football, or soccer, or even figure skating, and if he ever wants somebody to play with.

* * *

It's a chilly Sunday afternoon when Derek watches Stiles attempt to shoot goals on the empty lacrosse field. He had other intentions for his day, like sifting through all of his family's records that escaped the fire unsigned to look for clues to find answers regarding Jackson, but somehow research turned into fresh air which turned into heading for the school which turned into watching Stiles routinely bounce around the field and mutter encouragements to himself while he sends balls careening past the goal.

There's not even a goalie, which makes the amount of Stiles' failed attempts borderline pathetic, but the more Derek watches the more he realizes that Stiles' problem isn't a complete lack of athletic talent but rather an inability to properly concentrate. He's seesawing around from foot to foot, rolling his shoulders back and forth and staring down the goal post when he should be focusing on the ball and the strength of his throw.

Derek resigns himself for watching in silence for at least half an hour, which is silly, because watching Stiles fiddle with the lacrosse gear and throw his arms into the air like he's won the lottery every time he makes a successful shot definitely isn't television-worthy entertainment, but he watches nonetheless. Sometimes he wonders if this kid, so underrated by his friends and lacrosse teammates, has something much more valuable to offer than just a loud cheering voice from the bench and the occasional spot of wit and humor, like his lack of talent on the field is a mask for how much potential he really has, whether it be knowledge or logic or an unrelenting loyalty.

Derek doesn't let himself ponder Stiles' attributes for too long, not exactly eager to start peeling the onion on other people when he isn't even comfortable looking under his own skin, and instead darts out from behind the trees and catches a ball soaring toward the goal.

He turns the ball in his fingers and looks up at Stiles, who looks both sufficiently alarmed at his spontaneous appearance and irritated that what was possibly a winning shot was just intercepted.

"You're in your head way too much," Derek offers as advice, throwing the ball back at Stiles and watching as he fumbles to catch it.

"Uh, hi, that was totally normal," Stiles says, peering suspiciously into the trees from where Derek emerged from as if awaiting the arrival of the rest of his pack to come prowling from the undergrowth.

"You'd be a better player if you stopped thinking so much. Focus on the ball. On the goal. On how you want the ball to be launched and where it needs to go," Derek steps in front of the goal and stretches his arms. "Try me."

Stiles looks down at the ball in his fingers and Derek standing guard over the goalie net critically. "You want to help me practice?"

"Take the shot, Stiles."

"_You?_" Stiles repeats, sounding more skeptical than ever as he poises his stick. Derek remains wordless, so after a good few moments of fierce staring in which Stiles squints at Derek as if waiting for him to attack or display an ulterior motive explaining why he's spending a crisp afternoon outside with a high schooler who's trying to improve his aim, Stiles benches his skepticism and takes a shot.

The ball flies easily into Derek's hand when his reflexes kick in, his fingers furling around the ball a moment after it soars from Stiles' net. He throws it back. It hits Stiles in the chest.

"Not fair!" He moans, picking up the ball after he bounces onto the dirt. "You're using your crazy reflexes and supernatural advantage over me!"

"Exactly," Derek persists. "I'm better and faster than any goalie you'll be up against in a game. If you can find a way to get past me, you'll have no problems in a match."

"Great. So if I'm battling a high school team of werewolves, I'll be one hundred percent prepared," Stiles mumbles, but takes the shot again anyway. Derek catches it in his hand like it was gently tossed at him. Derek throws it back and they start all over again.

Stiles whines about Derek's unjust advantage all afternoon, but they don't stop practicing until the cold settles into their bones and dusk falls over the sky.

* * *

When it comes to eating right, Stiles isn't nearly as stingy with himself as he is with his father—but really, who the hell is going to look out for the guy who feels the need to salt his salt and eat all the deep fried delicacies at the fair if Stiles isn't around to force the random healthy snack down his throat—mostly because he loves chips and pretzels and nachos and everything and beyond in the candy aisle, since he is a growing boy and all, but on game day, Stiles eats right.

He's sitting at the kitchen table cutting a grapefruit into quarters and slurping milk from a bowl, lightly colored from cereal steeping in it for too long, when his father first walks in and notices that Stiles is actually packing a banana for an afternoon snack instead of jamming a handful of Oreos into a sandwich bag. Stiles sticks half the grapefruit in his mouth and wordlessly offers one of the pieces to his father, a few drops of juice trickling down his chin when he bites into the fleshy fruit.

"What's with the health kick?" His father asks, predictably denying the grapefruit. Stiles chews around a few seeds and picks the mangled peel from his mouth when he's done chewing.

"It's game day! Gotta be pumped up!"

His father looks rather skeptical, and because he's cruel, asks, "Are you playing?"

"Uh… define playing," Stiles mumbles, sticking another quarter into his mouth. He's not playing. He hasn't even asked Coach if he's playing yet and he already knows he isn't. At least three stronger and tougher guys would have to be severely hospitalized for Stiles even to be considered for first line, but still, cheering on his teammates takes effort. Besides, he knows perfectly well that irony will bite him in the ass when the one morning he binges on breakfast brownies and slushies from the nearest gas station and he crashes from his sugar rush by second period will be the day Coach Finstock pulls him in to play.

He looks at his father, who looks slightly disappointed, not necessarily in Stiles, but the fact that his son's sitting at the kitchen eating the breakfast of champions like he's training for the Olympics even though he'll spend all evening benched like a rookie, and nods at him. "All right, well. Tell your teammates I wish them luck," he claps Stiles on the shoulder and shrugs on his sheriff jacket, chancing one more pitying look at the measly grapefruit. "At least you're dedicated."

* * *

Derek spends his morning trekking through the mud layered on the lacrosse field thanks to last night's heavy rain shower to the locker room in hopes of catching Scott and having a brief discussion with him regarding Jackson, but when he arrives, he doesn't find a smelly locker room full of chortling boys in towels and jerseys, but rather just one body sitting on a bench nervously twiddling his lacrosse stick like a magician's wand.

He smells him first—the residue of sugary cereals and barely controlled anxiety—and realizes that Stiles is around the corner. He watches for a few moments as Stiles tosses his lacrosse stick back and forth and twists it endlessly in his hands as if his fingers would be scuttling around like spider's legs if he didn't have something to occupy them with, and then announces himself with a rough clearing of his throat before Stiles nearly topples from the bench.

"Holy God!" he cries, rather squeakily, and peels himself from the floor to regain his composure. "What are you doing here? You normally don't come any closer than the stands."

"You notice me?"

"Uh, _yeah_," Stiles snorts. "Not exactly hard to miss a creepy dark dude in leather who's always there to watch practice from the bushes. _Creepily_."

Derek decides to ignore the emphasis on his sinister behavior and conspicuous spying. "I was actually looking for Scott."

"Too early," Stiles answers promptly, sneaking a glance at the clock ticking on the wall. Derek follows his gaze to where the minute hand ticks by and supposes that yes, this does explain why there are no boys throwing wet towels and shouting vulgarities in between the rows of lockers, except it doesn't explain why _Stiles_is here, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and ready for action.

"Then why are you here?" Derek asks. As far as he can tell, even the lacrosse coach hasn't bothered pulling himself from his bed sheets and unlocking his office. Stiles starts swinging his lacrosse stick again, back and forth like a frantic pendulum.

"It's game day," Stiles says instantly, so profoundly Derek is forced to wonder if the words should be graced with capital letters. "And just in case you're wondering, I'm not nervous."

He continues to swing his lacrosse stick in wide, spacious circles with fumbling fingers. He's the personification of every symptom of nerves there is, from the beads of sweat Derek notices are gathering at his hairline to the elevated heartbeat before morning practice has even begun, to the scrambling fingers that manage to lose their hold on the stick and send it inelegantly soaring into a locker twice. Derek decides not to mention it.

"Are you even playing?"

Stiles opens his mouth, possibly to announce his unexpected participation in the team until he remembers once more that he bears no such enlightening news, and closes his mouth once more. "Uhhh. No. But I'm always prepared. Like a Boy Scout," he holds three fingers up in the air, flashing Derek the Boy Scout signal like they're about to go running through the woods together to gather camping materials. "Are you going to watch?"

"I have other things to do," Derek declines, and Stiles makes a face.

"Like what, mull around in your empty house or brood through the woods? C'mon, give me an actually good excuse."

"_Fine_," Derek begrudgingly says, instantly regretting the words the moment they leave his mouth. He _does_have better things to do. Having tea and finger sandwiches with Chris Argent sounds like a better time than watching a group of aggressive teenage boys ambling through a field while worried mothers and admiring girls coo and shriek from the crowds during a humongous match. Practice is always quiet; the boys are sleepy and only a handful of interested students bundled in their coats come to watch and show their support. The game is going to once again remind Derek of all the reasons he typically stays away from people.

Oddly enough, later that day, he still shows up.

* * *

Naturally, they win.

It would have been an utter failure had they not been able to secure a victory when they're possibly the only team in the town with the advantage of the athletic prowess that comes with having actual flesh and blood werewolves on the team, and thankfully they don't end up anywhere near losing when the scoreboard reaches the zero seconds left mark and the referee blows his whistle.

The team all runs together and bumps chests and becomes a gargantuan pile of boyish limbs and congratulatory pats on the back, and Stiles jumps to his feet and cheers so loudly the mother next to him actually plugs her ears. He knows that behind him, Mrs. McCall is clapping and Allison is waving at her victorious boyfriend, and behind all the proud parents and students, he knows that Derek is watching the game as promised without making a single sound to contribute to the mass cheerleading.

Still, he came, which makes Stiles feel better simply because he now knows that Derek keeps his promises, no matter how trivial, and didn't go home to sit among charred debris like Stiles had thought he would. Stiles twists around and catches sight of Derek, half his face lit up with the moonlight and mouth twitching in what might be a poor attempt to will his facial muscles to create a smile—or possibly stifle one, Stiles will never know for sure exactly how Derek's face works—and flicks his thumbs up at him with a broad smile.

And then Greenberg—fucking _Greenberg_—starts roaring like a caveman who just found his vocal chords and barrels toward Stiles at illegal speeds, his beefy hand shaking his lacrosse stick triumphantly right before he collides directly into Stiles' chest and sends him careening to the floor.

Stiles is promptly distracted from if Derek saw his dorky thumbs up when he's tackled from his standing position on the bench and lands with an _oooomph_and a squeak to the dirt, arm smacking into the bench and slicing skin.

It hurts and the blood starts running down Stiles' forearm, but it feels like a battle bruise even if Stiles never touched his stick during the whole game and his hindquarters never left their warm patch on the bench.

* * *

It's nearly an hour later when the victors disperse from the field and stop chanting their triumphant war cry—the losers slumped from the field muttering nearly a moment after the game ended—and the coach herds them all into the locker room bellowing at them that none of their girlfriends will hug and kiss them if they all smell like pig piss for the rest of the night, and the showers commence.

Derek watches as the bleachers empty and the encouraging, handwritten signs spelling _Go Beacon Hills_ and _Jackson for the win_ or even one particularly glittery poster reading _Scott McCall is our king!_are left behind alongside a lone knitted mitten abandoned by its partner.

He considers going home and filing tonight under another evening with Beacon Hills didn't witness a bloody massacre thanks to Jackson or the hunters or even an out of control Scott, but he stays. He watches as the boys file out of the locker room after the entire sky has been drenched in black, freshly showered and hitching their sports bags over their shoulders as they head to their cars.

He thinks about home, and how beneficial a night of sleep would be for him, and then Stiles flashing him two thumbs up from the bench he had an eye on during the game flits through his mind.

He heads for the locker room.

* * *

Stiles is the last one in the shower because he spends a humiliating amount of time sprawled on the mud with Coach Finstock shining light into his eyes and barking at him to walk in a straight line and thoroughly mocking Greenberg for being the biggest klutz on the team for possibly injuring his benchwarmer while all the other boys charge for the showers to get the warmest of the water for their aching muscles.

He proves that he's not concussed by dancing on the spot for Coach Finstock—an entertaining bit which does little to convince the man that Stiles was not mentally harmed in the victory tackle—and still ends up last in the showers with nothing but icy spray left for him. Scott doesn't wait up, not with a post-game celebratory date to get to with Allison, and he whistles to himself in the shower to keep himself company instead after Danny is the last to close his locker and file out of the locker room.

He's still in the shower getting the last of the dirt off of the back of his knees from when Greenberg barreled him into the ground when the sound of the door creaking open alerts him, followed with deliberate footsteps into the locker room echoing through the tiles, and Stiles barely has the time to push a bar of soap between his legs to keep his privacy in check before the footsteps start moving closer.

"Someone's naked in here!" Stiles calls out into a row of lockers, his voice reverberating in the empty room and bouncing off the corners.

"I know," a voice calls back. It's ominous and familiar, unlike any of the boys on the team who would be hollering past the lockers and snatching away Stiles' change of clothes right about now as general rowdy boy behavior, and Stiles goes to turn off the shower.

"Derek?" Stiles calls out, and suddenly Derek's _right there_ standing by the showers with his eyebrows knitted together and towel in his hand. The showerhead _drip drip drip_s cold trickles of water still oozing through the pipes onto Stiles' foot as Stiles nearly slips on the wet tile beneath him in an effort to collect his naked self and glare down the intruder.

"Here," Derek says, pushing the towel into Stiles' hands, not the least bit fazed by his clumsiness. Stiles wraps it around his waist and considers chastising the man for being unable to grasp simple concepts of knocking and privacy, briefly wondering if that kind of unbridled curiosity never was suppressed by a few unpleasant encounters in his youth when Derek could have possibly stumbled in on his parents making out or his sister shaving her legs. Instead of admonishing—since who is he kidding, Derek will never learn—he decides on spending his words rehashing the match instead.

"You came to see the match," he says, and Derek nods. "Did you like it? We won, I mean. That's always a plus."

"You didn't even play," Derek points out, as if Stiles shouldn't deem the victory notable considering he had no credit in the triumph. "And then you got tackled when the game was already over."

"You saw that?" Stiles asks dryly, and sneaks a glance at his forearm where a feeble drop of blood, watery after the shower, is crawling down his arm from where Greenberg smashed him into the benches. Derek follows his gaze and examines the cut. Stiles loudly interjects, "It's my battle wound," when Derek notices its presence. Derek doesn't seem impressed by his veteran status.

"How is it that you manage to get hurt even when you don't play?" Derek says, and it sounds like a rhetorical question, so Stiles decides to cut back on the multiple explanations as to where his clumsiness originated from and why it should never be intermingled with Greenberg's stupidity.

Derek doesn't seem to want an answer either, instead picking Stiles' arm in his grasp and parting his lips, pressing his mouth, warm and wet, over the cut. Stiles jumps at the touch, especially when Derek's tongue slithers from his mouth to lick over the spot where the blood gently runs down his arm, but Derek only holds him in his grip more firmly and doesn't let go until he's satisfied with his work.

It's one of the weirdest things to ever happen to Stiles, mostly because he can't believe Derek Hale just voluntarily touched him and actually _licked_ his skin, but also because he actually didn't mind the aforementioned licking. Tongues belong in mouths—unless mouths are busy kissing, in which case Stiles doesn't have a lot of firsthand experience but knows from Google and that issue of _Cosmo_he stole from the doctor's office that swapping spit and tangoing tongues are supposedly a pleasant part of osculation—and yet here he is, not bothering to wipe off where Derek's saliva is drying on his forearm.

"It's amazing you haven't lost a limb yet, Stiles," Derek murmurs, directly onto Stiles' arm, and his voice is so quiet and compelling Stiles actually finds himself leaning closer to hear it more clearly, which is startling, because he normally finds himself leaning away from Derek when their proximity apart starts dwindling.

"I'll make it my New Year's resolution," Stiles promises, and Derek starts pulling away from his arm. The cut doesn't sting anymore, barely even registers in his mind as an injury, nothing but a patch of warmth. He realizes that Peter Hale held his arm to his lips in a parking lot just like this not long ago, fangs extended and ready to seize his wrist and bite, and here Derek is, capable of doing the same thing and sinking his teeth right into his arm, except Stiles isn't nervous. His heart is pounding like crazy against his ribcage, but in a way that's not even the slightest bit terrified, but rather—

"Your heart's beating," Derek says when he drops Stiles' arm. "You're excited."

"Uh, yeah," Stiles admits, because there is something that very much feels like thrill running through his veins right now. He wonders if it's the same adrenaline he felt electrocuting him when the whistle blew and the scoreboard called out in favor of their team. "We just won. You didn't tell me if you liked the game."

"I don't really like lacrosse," Derek says, not bothering to sugarcoat. Stiles still doesn't know if he appreciates the brutal honesty in his life or if he prefers the way Scott fumbles around his words looking for the nicest lie to offer as a cushion to his ego.

"Lacrosse is awesome. I mean, there's sticks with _nets_and that's pretty original if you ask me and half the school shows up because they love it, and you show up because—" Stiles stops himself. "You showed up for me?"

"I don't know why I showed up," Derek says, and he actually looks a little annoyed with himself, like he's just realized all of the other things he should have been busy doing and that he favored a little high school kid's pleading for him to come watch him bounce on the bench over his own priorities.

"Because you couldn't resist me, obviously," Stiles says, and it's supposed to be a joke. He laughs, and it echoes through the locker room. He holds onto his towel for support while the showerhead continues dripping behind him.

Derek furrows his eyebrows even further, a heavy wrinkle forming on his forehead. He looks like he's working out something unpleasant, like a complex math problem that would be so much easier with a calculator, and that's when he turns to Stiles and says, "You're right."

Before Stiles can insist that he was _just kidding_, really, and explain how sarcasm runs rampant in his words without his permission, Derek is pushing him against the shower wall where it's still wet and dotted with suds of soap, officially making the towel damp and useless against his backside, and is slotting their mouths together.

His lips are just as hot on Stiles' mouth as they were on his arm, warm like pavement in July and wet like a swimming pool, rubbing and parting against Stiles' without a shred of hesitance and only pure, unbridled want, like he can't force himself to elbow away from Stiles and consider the consequences when he's so distracted by his own epiphany that he likes watching Stiles on the sidelines and that he's actually grown to _care_for someone, an underage high school kid of all the possibilities. Stiles grabs his shoulder and squeezes hard, the touch bringing Derek back to reality and causing him to wrench away from Stiles' mouth.

"Do you want this?" He asks, rough and low, right by his chin. Their foreheads keep bumping because they're _just that close_, and Stiles opens his mouth to talk and lets loose nothing but a squeaky whimper. He wonders briefly if his words and his breath were stolen away when Derek assaulted his mouth with his own. Derek tenses.

Around him it smells very much of _boy_ and sweat and other things Stiles never exactly connoted with his first kiss, including _Derek Hale_, who wasn't exactly supposed to be there to witness his first kiss let alone be participating in it. He's thinking at one hundred miles an hour trying to organize his jumbled thoughts and find out if that feeling coursing through his blood earlier was really _arousal_ instead of adrenaline like he originally identified it, but he's not thinking fast enough, because a moment later Derek is slipping back to an appropriate distance and is backing up, shoulders tense and face grim. Stiles wonders if what he's looking at taking form on Derek's face is the melancholy sting of rejection, and then he realizes a moment later that _he_caused it.

Stiles reaches out reflexively with his other hand, promptly dropping his towel in the process, and tries not to think about how astonishingly naked he just became when he reaches out to grab Derek by the elbow and reel him back in. He comes willingly, which is a surprise, because Stiles definitely assumed that Derek would be more stubborn about this entire situation—then again, Derek just _kissed him_in the boys' locker room like they're both back in middle school, so what does he know about Derek Hale and his idiosyncrasies?—and Stiles takes his opportunity when he sees it and pushes his mouth onto Derek's jaw.

The stubble his lips meet there is rough and prickly, sure to bruise his mouth if he rubs his lips against it enough, but Stiles doesn't let it deter him, moving down his neck where the scruff fades into smooth skin, not a single scar for his lips to bump over, just soft flesh and expanses of muscle. He lets his sixteen-year-old boy instincts take over before his brain does, licking over fluttering pulse points and collarbones, which apparently breaks a wall of resistance in Derek because next thing Stiles knows he's back against the shower wall, shoulder blades damp against the tile as Derek grips his chin.

"Do you know what you're doing?"

"Actually, no," Stiles says surely, and tries grinning. It actually succeeds in making everything seem more amusing. He loops his arms around Derek's neck and stares right into his eyes. "But this is pretty cool, yeah?"

Derek kisses him again—apparently whole-heartedly agreeing with Stiles for once in his life—right under the drip of the showerhead, and Stiles doesn't worry about his abandoned towel anymore after that.

* * *

Derek keeps attending lacrosse games.

But for Stiles, he starts sitting in the stands.

_-fin_

* * *

_A/N: _This story is for Stiles' shining moment in 2x11 on the lacrosse field. (But I'd prefer if Jeff Davis didn't break another one of his rules for Stiles because I'm kind of digging the geeky never-kiss-a-girl rule).

Also, this is to kick off what's going to feel like the most painful hiatus ever. That was the first finale in a long time that didn't leave me wanting to punch walls, just cry in happiness. Prayer circle for Sterek in season three, yeah? I need lots of stories to get me through the next few months when there's no more Teen Wolf Moonday to get me through the week.


End file.
